


I.Q.

by lackofpatience



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, M/M, Mailroom!Jimmy, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackofpatience/pseuds/lackofpatience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little malarkey set shortly after the opening flashback in RICO. I don't even ship these two, what am I doing, how did I get here, who are you, what are you doing in my house, don't look at me like that. ***SPECIAL EXTENDED EDITION OMGWTF!***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I created a damn account just to post this somewhere, smdh. Whatever, I'm dead inside after Pimento, anyway.

He doesn't know what he's going to do until he does it, all he knows is that it's been almost half an hour since Hamlin whisked Kim away mid-delightfully-inebriated-conversation with a smug smile (“Sorry, Jimmy; shop talk, you know?”), and Bert can only keep himself off of the dance floor for so long. It's a party, for Christ's sake, a guy's got to keep himself entertained somehow, right? So when he tracks the pair down, laughing it up in one of the hotel's lavish hallways (carefully tasteful garlands and holly arrangements lining the walls for the season, ballrooms branching off of every corridor), this time Jimmy's the one flashing Kim an apologetic shrug and promising that he'll be back before the open bar shuts down for the night as he leads Hamlin away by the shoulders.

“Look, Jimmy, if this is about-” Hamlin starts, but Jimmy cuts him off with a string of 'tut-tuts' (there's only one possible thing Hamlin could mean, after all, a rather spectacular dismissal that still stings whenever he sits still for too long, and of _course_ the man is just so eager to bring it up, isn't he?).

“Not about that,” Jimmy assures him, palms out in a conciliatory gesture, water under the freaking bridge. “Not even a little. In fact, I actually want to show you something, just to prove how intensely not-about-that it is.” At this, he opens a door in the hallway with a flourish, but not one of the lavish oak-paneled ones leading to another party full of rich white assholes and the lesser beings they deign worthy enough to hang around their fringes. No, this one is set right into the wallpaper, practically invisible to all but those with a canny eye for situational details.

“Jimmy. This is a storage closet,” Hamlin intones with all the patience one might muster for a none-too-bright child.

“So it is!” is the cheerful reply he gets as Jimmy shuts the door behind them, the world suddenly falling into darkness save for a rectangular seam of brilliance, one last link to the outside. “Deductive reasoning like that must be why you get the corner office, and I'm still in the mail room, huh?”

“Come on, it's like I told you before-” Hamlin starts again, but there are no gentle admonishments to quiet him this time, just the rough slam of Jimmy's body as he pushes him up against a shelf, almost causing him to trip over what could only be a vacuum cleaner. Hamlin tenses immediately, and with a wolfish grin that would never be allowed to see the light of day, Jimmy realizes that he probably thinks he means to hurt him. Wouldn't that be a laugh? Instead, Jimmy presses himself flush against all that expensive suit to whisper angrily in Hamlin's ear, lips brushing against him with every word.

“Shut up. Just shut up for once in your fucking life, Howard, do you think you can do that?”

Okay, so he doesn't pull off 'angry' so much as 'desperately, brokenly furious', but there's no reply either way, so apparently the answer is 'yes', although – was that a shiver? Maybe. Maybe not. Again, it probably doesn't matter, because his hands are sliding between them, and Hamlin isn't stopping him, even as his breath comes faster and Jimmy sinks down to the floor, undoing his pants. He can smell leather, and yeah, the son of a bitch seriously bought a new belt for the office Christmas party. Unreal.

He's not quite hard yet when Jimmy takes him in his mouth, but that doesn't last long (because if you think James M. McGill, Esq. doesn't know how to suck cock, that's just because you never got to meet Slippin' Jimmy) and soon, he's bobbing his head with Hamlin heavy on his tongue and drawing ragged breaths above him.

It's not much, but damn it, after the weeks of impotent, seething disappointment, it's something.

Eventually, he looks up, expecting to see Hamlin with his head tipped back, likely imagining whatever bimbo last turned him down. When he sees eyes, white and wide, it's almost enough to break his rhythm (almost), and Jimmy's one regret is that he can't properly smirk with his mouth full. 

Maybe Hamlin's just not as good as adjusting to the dark as Jimmy. Maybe he doesn't see a thing. Or maybe he really does like to watch, because as soon as Jimmy's gaze meet his, a hand finds its way to the back of Jimmy's head and he finds his mouth being fucked in earnest ( _selfish fucking prick..._ ), Hamlin coming hard with a single grunt moments later.

Jimmy could swallow if he wanted to, and he makes a great show of slowly drawing his lips down the length of Hamlin's softening dick before spitting into a convenient bucket and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Hamlin just stands there for a few long moments, catching his breath with a look that could be either regret or contempt before he hastily starts tucking himself back in.

“You want to help me up? I've got bad knees,” Jimmy interrupts, holding a hand up towards Hamlin, who can only scoff incredulously and hoist Jimmy to his feet while looking rumpled and lost.

“This doesn't-” he starts, and he's managed to finish all of one solitary sentence in the last fifteen minutes, because Jimmy cuts him off once more with a bark of laughter and an oh-so-good-natured slap on the arm.

“Sorry, it'll have to wait. I've got a friend waiting,” is all he says, and just like that, the door's closing behind him.

**********

Jimmy takes him one more time, under the desk in his office after six months have elapsed and the situation has emphatically _not_ been reassessed, and the words are out as soon as Hamlin slumps back in his thousand-dollar chair, spent.

“I quit.”

Chuck's going to be so damn disappointed, and Jimmy knows he'll be dreading that conversation as soon as he leaves. For now, though, he feels on top of the world as he smirks and presses a kiss to Hamlin's inner thigh, as winking and insincere as any interaction they've ever suffered through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a new chapter, so much as the final tag as seen through Howard's eyes. I just got bored and really wanted to crawl around in his weird little Hamlindigo head a bit, is all.

You can get away with so much in the dark that you simply can't by light of day. It was one thing for Howard to get the best head of his life in a blackened closet at an unfamiliar hotel in between clever, patented party anecdotes. It was absurd, easily dismissed as little more than a dream, at least once he was sure that Jimmy wasn't interested in making it into an ongoing concern. The man was understandably frustrated, acting out in strange ways, who was Howard to judge? Even if this particular way happened to leave him utterly wrecked. It was done. No harm, no foul.

This, though? In his own _office?_ This is a foul. This is a _big_ foul, this is a full-on game delay. He has a meeting in forty-five minutes, for god's sake. It's _real_ , in a raw, ugly sort of way, and even though he hisses through his teeth as Jimmy takes him into the wet inferno of his mouth, Howard is practically willing his body to get this over with as quickly as possible.

It's a little bit easier once he gives himself over to the sensations, of course; it always is. Lines that he knows shouldn't be crossed grow soothingly fuzzy as the slide of Jimmy's lips around his cock evens out. It's infuriating, really, how good he is at this, made that much worse by how much harder it's going to be to dismiss this time around.

He's staring, mouth gone slack as he tries to keep his breathing even, but he's not aware of it until Jimmy's eyes snap up and meet his. There's something cold in them that he hasn't seen before and doesn't particularly want to see again, even if the man's never looked better than in this moment. Instinctively, Howard reaches out with one hand, brushes a thumb over one of Jimmy's hollowed cheeks, but he only succeeds in getting him to break the moment and look back down, studiously back to work. At least until Howard jerks his hips up, forcing Jimmy to gag ever-so-slightly and bring his hands up, pressing Howard back into his chair without missing a beat.

At least it got Jimmy to look up at him again, and if that steely look isn't entirely gone, it's subdued somewhat, replaced with a bit of shrewd challenge that Howard has always been convinced is a key ingredient in why everyone seems to like him so damn much. He has yet to crack the entire recipe, though. Likely never will, considering he let this happen again without so much as a _thought_ to stopping it, having had months to stew on the idea and how bad it is. Nothing about Jimmy makes sense.

Somewhere along the line, his hand found its way to the back of Jimmy's neck, and Howard savours the steady motion, how it coincides with every renewed wash of pleasure coming to him, pushing him towards that cliff he is all too ready to leap from. This needs to _end_ , so end it does, with Howard biting back a moan as fingers tighten into fists and he comes, feeling frustrated and used and not really caring all that much either way.

How can he care about that when he's got far bigger problems? Because Chuck McGill's alleged train wreck of a younger brother is slouched between his legs, swallowing his semen like a pro, and as his muscles give out on him, all Howard wants to do is grab him by his cheap tie, drag him up off of his bad knees, and kiss him, taste himself on Jimmy's tongue and just _try_ to wipe some of that smug smirk off of his too-wet-to-ignore lips-

“I quit.”

_Oh, thank god._


End file.
